The Dancer from Atlantis (14 page)

‘Already tomorrow—’

A day had passed in preparing for the voyage. He and she had spent it together, and the hell with what anybody thought.

‘We dare not wait, this time of year.’

‘I know, I know. Though you could. You can’t be wrecked, Duncan. You’ll come safe to Atlantis. You did.’ She buried her face
against his shoulder. He felt the wetness of it. Her hair spilled across his breast. ‘Am I trying to cheat that girl out of
a few days? Yes. But no use, is it? Oh, how glad I am we know nothing about what happens to us after next springtime! I couldn’t
bear that.’

‘I believe you could bear anything, Erissa.’

She lay breathing awhile. Finally, raising herself over him and looking down, she said: ‘Well, it need not be utter doom.
Why, we may even save my people. We may be the blade the gods use to trim back a destiny that grew crooked. Will you strive
where you are, Duncan, as I’ll strive here while I wait for you?’

‘Yes,’ he promised, and in this hour, at least, he was honest.

Not that he believed they could rescue her world. Or if they were able to – if human will could really turn the stars in their
courses – for to change what had been would be to change the universe out to its last year and light-year – he would never
condemn Bitsy to having never been born. Yet might he not imaginably find a door left open in this cage of time?

Erissa fought to achieve a smile, and won. ‘Then let’s mourn no longer,’ she said. ‘Love me till dawn.’

He had not known what loving could be, before her.

The eeriness of the fate that waited for him could not take from Reid all his wonder at coming to lost Atlantis.

It rose from a sea which today was more green than blue, whitecaps running like the small swift clouds above. Approximately
circular, a trifle over eleven miles across, the island climbed in rugged tiers from its coasts. Where cliff or crag stood
bare, the stone showed blacks, dull reds, and startling pale pumice below. From the middle, the cone of the mountain loomed
in naked lava and cinders. A trail could be seen winding up to the still quiescent crater. A lesser volcano thrust from the
waves not far offshore.

At first view the overlay of life was unspectacular. The word that crossed Reid’s mind was ‘charming, ’Fields, autumnally
ocher, were tucked into pockets of soil; but most agriculture was orchards, olive, fig, apple, or vineyards which now glowed
red and purple. Still more of the steep land was left in grass, pungent shrubs, scattered oak or cypress made into bonsai
by thin earth and salt winds. Reid was surprised to see that it pastured not the elsewhere omnipresent goats, but large red-and-white
cattle; then he remembered that this was the holy place of the Keftiu and Erissa (today, today! ) danced with those huge-horned
bulls.

Farmsteads lay well apart. Their houses were similar to those in Greece or throughout the Mediterranean countries, squarish
flat-roofed adobes. Many had exterior staircases, but few windows faced outward; a home surrounded a courtyard whereon the
family’s existence was centered. However, the Keftiu were distinctive in their use of pastel stucco and vivid mural patterns.

Fisher boats were busy across the waters; otherwise no vessels moved except Diores’. A cloud mass on the southern horizon
betokened Crete.

Reid drew his cloak tighter about him against the chill. Was Atlantis no more than this?

The ship rowed past a lesser island which, between abrupt cliffs, guarded the mouth of a miles-wide lagoon. Reid saw that
the great volcano stood in the middle of that bay. He saw, too,
that here was indeed a place legend would never forget.

Off the starboard bow, a city covered the hills that rose from the water. It was at least as big as Athens, more carefully
laid out, delightful to the eye in its manifold colors, and it needed no wall for defense. Its docks were mostly vacant, the
majority of ships drawn ashore for winter. Reid noticed several hulls being scraped and painted on an artificially widened
beach some distance farther off; others were already at rest in the sheds behind. A couple of warcraft, fishtailed and eagle-prowed,
were moored at readiness, reminders of the sea king’s might.

Here in the sheltering heart of the island, water sparkled blue and quiet, the air was warm and the breezes soft. A number
of small boats cruised around under sail. Their gay trim, the women and children among their passengers, marked them as pleasure
craft.

Diores pointed to the Gatewarden isle. ‘Yonder’s where we’ll go,’ he said. ‘But first we tie up at town and get leave to come
see the Ariadne.’

Reid nodded. You wouldn’t let just anybody onto your sanctum. The isle was superbly landscaped; terraces bore gardens which
had yet some flowerbeds to vie with arbors turning bronze and gold. On its crest spread a complex of buildings, only two stories
high but impressively wide, made from Cyclopean blocks of stone. These were painted white, and across that background went
a mural frieze: humans, bulls, octopuses, peacocks, monkeys, chimeras, a procession dancing from either side of the main gate
to the pillars which flanked it. They were bright red, those pillars; Erissa had told Reid the column was a sacred symbol.
Another sign was inset in gold over the lintel: the double ax, the Labrys. The third emblem curved on the roof above, a pair
of great gilded horns.

‘Will we have a long wait?’ he asked. A part of him marveled rather sadly at how, no matter what adventure or what contortions
of destiny, most time got eaten up by ordinariness. However taciturn his forebodings had made him on the voyage here, he had
not been spared hours of prosaic chatter. (And no serious talk. Diores had skillfully avoided letting that develop.)

‘Not us,’ the Athenian said, ‘after she hears we’re from Prince Theseus.’

That mention of heir rather than king hauled Reid’s attention to the sharp gray-bearded face before him. ‘Are they close friends,
then?’ he flung out.

Diores squirted a stream of saliva leisurely over the side. ‘Well,’ he said when he had finished, ‘they’ve met now and again.
You know how the prince has traveled about. Naturally he’d look in on the Ariadne. Be rude not to, wouldn’t it? And she’s
less of a snob about us Achaeans than you might look for, which could be helpful. Got a bit of Kalydonian blood in her, in
fact, though born in Knossos. Ye-e-es, I expect we’ll be well received.’

The unseasonal arrival of a ship drew a crowd to the wharf. They were a carefree lot. Teeth flashed in bronzed faces, hands
flew in gestures, words and laughter spilled forth. There was no evidence of poverty; Atlantis must wax rich off the pilgrimage
trade as well as its mundane industries; yet the Greeks had spoken to Reid, with considerable envy, about a similar prosperity
throughout the realm of the Minos.

Of course, by the standards of Reid’s milieu, even the well-to-do here lived austerely. But how much genuine well-being lay
in a glut of gadgets? Given a fertile sea in a gentle climate, surrounded by natural beauty, free of war or the threat of
it, who needed more?

When the Minoan worked, he worked hard, often dangerously. But his basic needs were soon taken care of; the government, drawing
its income from tariffs, tribute, and royal properties, made no demands on him; how much extra toil he put in depended on
how big a share of available luxuries he desired. He always left himself ample time for loafing, swimming, sport, fishing,
partying, lovemaking, worship, joy. Reid had gotten the distinct impression that Keftiu, 1400 B.C., had more leisure and probably
more individual liberty than Americans, 1970 A.D.

The harbormaster resembled Gathon but wore typically Cretan garb; a tightly wound white loincloth which doubled as padding
for a bronze girdle; boots and puttees; wraparound headgear; jewelry at neck, wrists, and ankles. He carried a staff of office
topped with the double ax, and a peacock plume in his turban. His fellow males were clad likewise, though less elaborately.
Most went bareheaded, some had a small cap, some chose shoes or sandals or nothing on the feet, the loincloths might be in
gaudy patterns, the belts were oftener leather than metal. Both sexes wore those cinctures; they could be seen around otherwise
naked children, constricting the waist to that
narrowness admired by the Keftiu; only the elderly gave their bellies room to relax.

Diores nudged Reid. ‘I must admit, mate, Cretish girls put on a brave show,’ he leered. ‘Eh? And it’s not hard finding a wench
who’ll tumble, either, after a bit o’ fast talk, maybe a stoup o’ wine or a bauble. I wouldn’t let my daughters run loose
like that, but it does make fun for a sailorman, right?’

Most women were dressed merely in ankle-length skirts; they were commoners, bearing groceries or laundry or water jugs or
babies. But some more fashionable types had crinolines elaborately flounced; and embroidered bodices, with or without a gauzy
chemise, that upheld but did not cover the breasts; and stone-studded copper, tin, bronze, silver, gold, amber ornamentation;
and saucy little sandals; and as wide a variety of hats as ever along Reid’s Champs Elysées; and makeup of talc and rouge
for more areas than the face. When the Achaean crew shouted lusty greetings, the younger girls were apt to giggle and wave
handkerchiefs in reply.

Diores and Reid explained to the harbormaster that they had official business with the Ariadne. He bowed. Of course, sirs,’
he said. ‘I’ll dispatch a courier boat at once, and you’ll doubtless be received tomorrow morning.’ He rested a bright glance
on Reid, obviously curious as to what manner of foreigner this might be. ‘Meanwhile, will you not honor my house?’

‘I thank you,’ Reid said. Diores was less pleased, having looked forward to a rowdy evening in a waterfront inn, but was forced
to accept too.

The streets lacked sidewalks; closely packed buildings hemmed them in between walls or booths. But they were wide, reasonably
straight, paved with well-dressed stone. A market square displayed a stunning mosaic of octopus and lilies; at its center
splashed a fountain, where children played under the eyes of mothers or nurses. The outdoor cleanliness was due to a sophisticated
drainage and refuse disposal system. The workaday bustle recalled that of Athens but was somehow more orderly, easygoing,
and happy. And it included sights unknown among those Achaeans who had not adopted Cretan civilization – shops offering wares
from as far as Britain, Spain, Ethiopia, or India; public scribes; an architect sketching on papyrus his rendering of a proposed
house; a school letting out, boys and girls together carrying styluses and waxed tablets for their homework and not appearing
to be exclusively children of the
rich, either; a blind lyrist playing and singing, his bowl at his feet for donations of food—

The harbormaster’s house was large enough to require two patios for ventilation. Its rooms were decorated with frescos of
animals, plants, waves in the lively and naturalistic Cretan style. Floors were pebbled cement covered by mats; you removed
footgear before entering. Pamela would have admired the furniture: wooden chests, bedsteads, and chairs; round-topped stone
tables; lamps, jars, braziers of different sizes and shapes. The workmanship was exquisite, the colors pleasing. A niche held
a terra-cotta image of the Goddess in Her aspect of Rhea the Mother. The entire family washed themselves, knelt, and asked
Her blessing before dinner.

After Aegeus’ board, Reid rejoiced in well-prepared seafood, vegetables, wheat bread, goat cheese, honeycake for dessert,
an excellent wine. The conversation was that of a civilized host, especially interested in astronomy and natural history,
who didn’t mind letting his wife and their offspring join in. No one got drunk and no slave girls waited in the guest chambers.
(In fact, while slaves were common elsewhere in the Thalassocracy, they were forbidden to be brought to holy Atlantis. There
a servant was usually the daughter of poor parents, paid in food, lodging, and an eventual dowry.)

Lying in a bed too small, Reid wondered how the Keftiu, preservers of law and peace, carriers of a trade that brought prosperity
to every realm it touched, clean, friendly, mannerly, learned, gifted, totally human, would come to be remembered for a man-devouring
monster in horrible corridors. Well, he thought, the victors write the chronicles, eventually the legends.

He opened his eyes. For the sake of fresh air, he’d left the door to the adjoining courtyard open. The night was clear, murmurous,
frosted with stars. But up across them reared the
black mass of the volcano; and it had begun to smoke.

Lydra, the Ariadne of Atlantis, touched Reid’s brow. ‘In the name of the Goddess and Asterion, blessings.’ Her formal words
were flattened out by the wariness that looked from her eyes.

He bowed. ‘Forgive an outlander, my lady, if he does not know what is proper behavior,’ he said awkwardly.

Silence fell and continued in that long dim room. At its southern end, the door giving on a light well was closed against
rain. Opposite gaped darkness, a hallway leading deeper into the maze of the palace-temple. A mural on the south side showed
Her three aspects together, Maiden, Mother, and Hag. On the north side, human figures who had the heads and wings of eagles
escorted the dead to judgment. The pictures had all the Cretan realism, none of the Cretan joyfulness. By flickering lamplight,
they seemed to stir. Smoke from bronze braziers curled before them, sweetened by sandalwood but stinging nostrils in this
bleak air.

‘Well.’ The high priestess sought her cushioned marble throne. ‘Be seated if you wish.’

Reid took a stool beneath her. What next? he wondered. Yesterday he and Diores had been received with ritual courtesy. Afterward
a pair of consecrates gave the American a guided tour of the publicly showable areas while the Athenian and the Ariadne were
closeted alone for hours. That evening, back at the harbormaster’s house, Diores was evasive: ‘– Oh, she wanted the gossip
from our parts. And I had orders to ask about getting the Temple’s help toward liberalizing the treaty – like letting us keep
more warcraft for protecting our interests in the Euxine where the Cretans don’t patrol – you know. She’ll see you private
tomorrow. Now have another cupful, if our host’ll be that kind, and simmer down.’